The Game
by Adamantwrites
Summary: While students at Harvard, are Adam Cartwright and Jarrod Barkley merely pawns in the game being played? Disclaimer: All recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. All original characters and plots are the property of the author. No copyright infringement is intended.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

Adam slowly turned his hot coffee mug on the wooden table as he and a few friends sat in the tavern near the college that was patronized by the Harvard students. He studied the water rings where various glasses had sat over the years, students just like him hefting a stein of beer or a mug of steaming coffee that had slopped over.

As usual, he and Jarrod Barkley, his friend and flat mate, having very little spending money, went to their favorite haunt to partake in energetic arguments over various political and social matters or to discuss intellectual theories on the evolution of man or the latest philosopher they had discussed in Professor Mercer's class. Lately though, since the female students from the nearby Women's College insisted on patronizing the tavern as well and becoming part of the conversations, topics had changed to include women's rights such as voting, having a say over reproductive choices including methods of birth control other than abortion and the ideas of free love and open marriage.

Isabelle Henry was as usual, pontificating and her topic this time was on men being responsible for birth control. "Why should the onus fall on women?" she perfunctorily asked. Isabelle was pretty enough and Adam had to admit that she was intelligent but she was deliberate in provoking people into arguments and watching them become outraged at her Bohemian views. But then Adam realized that he had the same fault and intentionally tried to provoke her; it wasn't a trait he was proud of but he did enjoy the result. Jarrod had described it as "lighting a keg of dynamite and watching it go off.'

"Because," Adam said looking up from studying the table top, "why would any woman trust one?"

"What?" Isabelle asked.

Jarrod grinned and the other male students seated around began to snicker while the five female students looked around their table to see what they had found funny. But what the female students didn't realize was that the Harvard students had been waiting for someone to take down Isabelle Henry a few notches and Adam Cartwright would be the one to venture to face her sharp tongue and equally sharp mind.

"The way you talk about men, why would you trust any of them to handle such an important matter? What are you proposing, Isabelle? Gelding? What type of birth control should the man provide? Withdrawal just at the moment of most heightened excitation? Where would that leave the woman, Isabelle? And wouldn't that leave you a mess to clean up?"

Adam's classmates roared as Isabelle's mouth dropped open. She didn't know how to respond to Adam because her emotions as far as he was concerned, always interfered with her logic.

Beatrice Severn, Isabelle's constant companion and fellow student, stood up and stabbed the air with her finger at Adam who sat and calmly sipped his coffee. He watched her full breasts heave as she insisted that he was just a man and couldn't be trusted at all for any reason; men always had their own agenda. Beatrice was stout and just hauling herself about from place to place caused her to breathe heavily; even sitting still, she could be heard breathing. Now, after chastising Adam, she was practically gasping for each subsequent breath.

"All right, all right," Adam said. "I can appreciate what women have to go through if they find themselves with child and I…well, for a mere 25 cents, a man can buy a 'rubber good' and save both of them a lot of trouble. I think that if a man and a woman agree to a sexual relationship then they both should take equal responsibility, especially if a child is the outcome."

Isabelle and Beatrice looked at one another. They didn't know what to say since Adam had conceded to their point in the argument. The other students, both male and female waited to see what would happen next.

"You don't really mean that," Isabelle said in a low voice.

"Of course, I mean it," Adam said, putting down his coffee mug. "Why is it, Isabelle, that you come over to the Courtyard Tavern and make a big argument over anything and everything? Why don't we talk about philosophy or scientific discoveries? Why must you always berate men as vile creatures that you wouldn't deign to consort with yet you can't seem to stay away from us?"

"Because all of you—all of you nasty Harvard men need educating on other issues, our issues. Men want to control everything as they have for centuries—to deny us our voice in politics, to control everything even down to our bodies and what we do with them. That's why. And I know about you, Adam Cartwright—and stop your smirking, Jarrod! You and he are both from out west where women are treated the same as cattle-made to bear child after child and then die!"

Adam and Jarrod looked at one another. Then Adam looked to Isabelle. "C'mon, Isabelle, let's make peace-give us a kiss."

The males roared with laughter and Isabelle, infuriated, stomped out, Beatrice puffing behind her and then the other three girls left with them as well. The last one spat in their direction before she walked out.

"Good job, Adam," one student called out. "You finally put that bitch in her place."

"You told her, told her right and it's about time. I don't know how you put up with her for as long as you did," another said. But Adam began to regret his behavior; he had been raised to respect women but Isabelle, she refused to allow anyone to treat her with the deference he had been taught to employ when interacting with females; whenever Adam tried to defer to her, to pull out a chair for her or such, Isabelle accused him of being patronizing and insisted that she be treated the same as a man. And she puzzled him.

And when Adam looked at Jarrod, Jarrod raised his brows. He understood that Adam was beginning to regret his behavior but Jarrod also understood that Adam Cartwright had been Isabelle's target of abuse for many weeks now and that he could only bear it for so long.

But in a corner table sat Zedock Taylor who detested Adam Cartwright and wasn't fond of Jarrod Barkley either; they were, in his opinion, of low birth and didn't deserve the respect of their professors and the admiration of other students. Zedock was as smart as Adam, handsome—or so many a girl had told him-and if it weren't for Adam, he would be the center of the intellectual arguments and the object of Isabelle Henry's obvious adoration. Zedock also was from a good family, a family that had donated much money to the college and for that alone, he deserved to be deemed above those clod-hopping cowboys. And when he was in Adam's presence, he seethed. But he was content to sit and wait to bring down the much-vaunted Adam Cartwright; he wanted to see it happen before his very eyes. Zedock wanted to be Adam Cartwright's nemesis.

That night as they walked back in the cold to their small apartment on the third floor of a rooming house, the two young men didn't speak much. But once they were inside the room and Adam had started the small furnace that warmed their quarters, Jarrod spoke.

"Don't use much coal," he said. "I haven't received my draft from home yet—I don't know why, and I can't expect you to use all your money keeping my ass warm."

Adam laughed. "I'd just as soon my pa sent me an Indian blanket than money. At least I'd be warm at night."

"Get Isabelle to warm your bed. She may seem like she doesn't care for you but I think that the reason she stops by the Courtyard Tavern is to see you."

"To see me?" Adam said. "She can't bear the sight of me."

"Oh no, friend," Jarrod said in his voice that he was learning to use as a lawyer presenting his case to a jury, "Miss Isabelle Henry, the crusader for women's right would be happy if you would give her a tumble—and as far as your being responsible for birth control, she wouldn't care. I think she'd love to have a way to get you to marry her."

"That's ridiculous." Adam had gone to the desk to find his book for their class on logic. All students, no matter what they had chosen as a profession, had to take a course in logic; they needed to be able to think, they were told. He picked it up and headed to the back alcove which served as the bedroom. It was partially closed off from the front room by a wall but it had no door to close it off completely.

"Miss Isabelle can't take her eyes off you," Jarrod said following him. "I offer that as proof."

"That's no proof at all. We can't take our eyes away from all sorts of things—good or bad—and usually, the more horrible and shocking, the more we stare."

"You'll see," Jarrod said. "I know of what I speak."

Adam sat down on his bed and raised the lamp so that he could read. "I have no interest in hearing you present the rest of 'the case'. I have to go over the reading material for Donnelly's class. He caught me flat-footed last time. Remember?"

"Ah, yes, I remember, but no matter what, Donnelly has nothing but admiration for your—what were the words he used—oh yes, lofty intellect." Jarrod sat on his own narrow bed that creaked under his weight. "Read the passages aloud to me, would you, Adam? That way we'll save time."

"All right, you lazy bastard—just don't fall asleep on me."

Jarrod laughed and made himself comfortable while Adam began to read in his deep baritone, "Title: Logical Constants. The constants with which we have to deal in every scientific theory may be divided into two large groups. The first group consists of terms which are specific for a given theory. In the case of arithmetic, for instance, they are terms denoting either individual numbers or whole classes of numbers, relations between numbers…"

And fifteen minutes later, Jarrod was softly snoring and Adam shook his head in disgust. So he read the rest of the section to himself until he too finally fell asleep with the text open on his chest.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

"Logic is mathematics and mathematics is pure beauty," Professor Donnelly said. "Mathematics is the basis of all that we find beautiful in life—even a woman's face. Yes, beauty is logical, a mathematical formula which is called the golden ratio also known as…."

"The golden mean." Jarrod completed the rest of the professor's sentence since he had left it hanging.

"Right, right you are, Mr. Barkley. Now you are showing the rudiments of your education. Merely the rudiments though. Now, can you extrapolate on that answer?"

Adam looked at Jarrod and slightly shook his head in amusement and Jarrod shrugged. Just two nights ago, Adam had been talking to Jarrod about the Parthenon and how it is believed to have been built according to the ratio of the golden mean.

"Dr. Donnelly," a student in the class on logic asked, "are you telling us that a woman is beautiful simply because she fits some logical mathematical formula?"

All the students waited for the professor to answer; beautiful women was a topic they were all interested in exploring.

"Yes. The formula deals with proportion and symmetry and humans prefer symmetry—find it attractive, seductive—it draws them in. This is a class in logic, remember? And all things are logical—even in nature but particularly in mankind's creations. Mr. Cartwright, you're studying architecture, I believe, so you must be familiar with the golden ratio or mean."

"Yes, sir, I am."

"And what is the number?"

"Well, it's the Greek number Phi, 1.618 or extended—1.6180339, but I have to disagree with the idea that beauty can only reside in symmetry."

"Oh, really, Mr. Cartwright? On what basis do you dispute that statement?" Professor Donnelly stood leaning on his lectern. The other students waited. They had listened before as Adam and their other professors had disagreed on matters. But what they didn't know was that even though Adam seemed cool on the outside, he was inwardly anxious; he knew that many of his teachers in his past had become upset with his pointing out to them any errors in their thinking.

One of Adam's grammar school teachers had quit because Adam was more educated than she in many matters and Ben had refused to keep his son home as the teacher had requested. But later, Ben had a serious talk with Adam.

"Adam, you don't have to correct everyone whenever they make mistakes and you certainly shouldn't correct your elders or your teacher."

"But, Pa, if she's teaching us the wrong thing, shouldn't I say something? If I don't then isn't every other student learning the wrong thing? And, Pa, if the teacher doesn't know some things and I do, why shouldn't I correct her?"

Ben was flustered. Adam had even corrected him upon occasion and it was all that Ben could do to swallow his pride and accept the correction gracefully; it was humiliating to be 'taught' by his son. And since there was no logical reason why Adam shouldn't correct misinformation even if it was given by a teacher, Ben gave the only answer he had—"It's just not polite."

Some of the students cleared their throats but all were waiting for Adam's reply.

"Well, sir," Adam said, "it's the element of imbalance that makes a woman beautiful, that makes her intriguing…in my opinion. A small imbalance in the eyebrows or a larger mouth in a face with otherwise small features is—as you put it-seductive. It's the same with architecture, as it is with a beautiful woman, as it is with most things that delight people. It's always the unexpected, the unpredictable that enthralls. Herrick wrote a poem..."

"Ah, yes." Professor Donnelly smiled slightly and looked over his students' heads as he recited from memory. " 'A sweet disorder in the dress, kindles in clothes a wantonness…do more bewitch me than when art, is too precise in every part.' Is that the poem?"

"Yes, sir," Adam said smiling. "I must say that you surprise me by knowing it. You are truly a Renaissance man."

"It always benefits a man to be knowledgeable in many areas—it makes life so much richer. So what is it about disarray that makes a woman so attractive?" Professor Donnelly stood behind his lectern and looked at the young, eager faces. They all held so much promise, those pure young men. Especially Adam Cartwright; he had a most promising future.

Adam grinned. "Well, if I am allowed to say, it is the subtle promise that she doesn't mind being mussed, doesn't mind…"

"Professor Donnelly," Zedock Taylor interrupted, "isn't this a class on logic? We all know that women are illogical."

The other students including Adam laughed.

"Actually," Professor Donnelly said with a smile, "to quote another great British writer, " 'Though this be madness, yet there's method in it.' A woman appears to a male's limited view to be illogical but in actuality, is calculating; as calculating as a man can be—perhaps more so. When it comes to love—or desire which is a demon in itself—we men sadly have a perspective that is ruled by the physical needs. Studies are beginning to show though that humans have an urge to reproduce to have offspring so sexual attractiveness in a woman is extremely logical; she would draw more prospective suitors and have her choice of the finest of the lot. But if we all thought with the precision of a mathematician, everyone and every action would make sense. But even if life was lived with the precision and logic of mathematics—women included-" the students chuckled again, "there would still be issues. And going back to Mr. Cartwright's comment on beauty, what is the bugaboo of logic, the bugaboo of life, of love since that seems to be foremost on all your minds?"

Silence reigned over the classroom. Professor Donnelly looked to Zedock Taylor. "Have you no answer, Mr. Taylor? I know from reading your papers that logical thinking is not your strongpoint but you must be aware of what blocks your path to that goal. If you read the last assignment, you should have the answer. Speak it 'trippingly' on your tongue."

Zedock said nothing, just looked down at his hands holding his idle pencil, nor did anyone else in the class speak while Professor Donnelly waited. And Then Adam spoke up, "Variables."

"Very good, Mr. Cartwright. I'm glad to see that someone takes their assignments seriously." Adam shifted uncomfortable in his seat; he didn't like to be lauded and yet he couldn't remain mute.

Professor Donnelly continued. "It is always the variable, something we can't predict, can't know because it is not a constant—it can change due to circumstances. So when one considers the variable, the outcome can change—anything is only predictable when there is no variable—only constants—and that of course doesn't happen in life."

"I think," Adam said, "that part of what makes life and people—especially women—so pleasurable is that we never know what is around the corner. A predictable life is a boring life, at least that's how I see it."

Jarrod cleared his throat and moved forward in his seat. "I agree with Adam. That's part of the reason I'm studying law. Although the law is assumed to be clear-cut, it's not. One variable is the human factor that plays into the jury. Every single person is a variable and even that changes from day to day as they have new experiences and are exposed to new information. I find that a knowledge of logic is helpful but knowledge of human nature is more important."

"Human nature, Barkley, is unpredictable so you can't really know it," Zedock said to Jarrod. "You can't predict what anyone will do—and although we may think we know another person we really don't—never can. But one thing is predictable-your support of Cartwright, no matter what."

"And just what does that mean?" Jarrod said, turning in his seat to look at Zedock. Adam, who also sat in the front, turned and so did others.

"It stands as proof to the truism that 'birds of a feather stick together.' You and he are cut from the same simple homespun cloth and obviously out of your element here at Harvard."

"I would argue that point," Jarrod said, "but since no one would jump to your defense—I believe that is predictable—a constant—I will let the subject drop."

Zedock looked at the faces in the room and then at Professor Donnelly who raised his brows in expectation, waiting to see if Zedock had a refutation before he, himself, stepped in and ended the clash.

"I will not deign to belabor the subject," Zedock said and looked down at his pad of paper and twirled his pencil. He detested the two friends, Adam Cartwright and Jarrod Barkley. And he detested Professor Donnelly. He became determined then that he would do whatever was necessary to pass the class in the most unpredictable way. He would be the variable in the otherwise logical equation.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Adam was working on creating blue prints for a chapel when Jarrod came into the flat. He threw himself on the small, tattered sofa in their front room with its faded rose print, sighing heavily; Adam didn't even look up.

"Well, Zedock Taylor and I just had a huge argument in our course on trial practice." Jarrod waited but Adam only nodded and continued to ply the straight edge in working on his plans. "Don't you want to hear about it?"

"Not really," Adam answered. "Make yourself useful and get together dinner."

"I am not the maid," Jarrod said. He stretched his legs out toward the small furnace. Adam had made the room comfortably warm. "Besides, other than some coffee, half a loaf of stale bread and a wedge off dried-out cheddar, we don't have any food."

Adam slammed his pencil down on the desk top. "Fine." He stood and reached into his pocket and counted out the coins. "I have seventy-nine cents—take it and buy some cold meats. I'll steam the bread and we can have sandwiches."

Jarrod, leaning his head back, looked at the ceiling; it was always a point of interest whenever he and Adam were bickering. "Let's take that money and go to the Courtyard and split one of their sandwiches and drink their hot coffee instead. Maybe Isabelle will be there."

"Is she supposed to be the carrot on the stick?" Adam asked.

Jarrod sat up. "Neither. The draw is their food which has to be better than some cheap cut of fatty, tough meat we can afford with steamed-over stale bread and coffee made with reused, anemic grounds."

Adam grimaced at the thought of using the same coffee grounds again and stood up, pulling his coat and red scarf off the back of the chair. "You've convinced me. Let's go."

The two men walked briskly down the streets of Boston lit by the streetlights.

"By the way," Jarrod said, "I received my money from home."

"Good," Adam said. "Then tomorrow after you cash it, you can buy me dinner." Adam waited a few moments and realized that Jarrod wanted to say something esle, to tell him something important. Although they had only met a year and a half ago, they knew each other well, both having the same temperament, the same acute intelligence, being the eldest in their respective family and both having the same dark hair. But where Adam was swarthy and dark-eyed, Jarrod was fair and blue-eyed and yet, they seemed two sides to the same coin joined by a burning desire to learn all they could and to bring their knowledge and talents home to benefit the new, young country out west.

Jarrod sighed. "There's a problem at home and I may have to leave school."

"What?" Adam looked at Jarrod who stared straight ahead.

"Apparently, my father's been ill—seriously ill—may even die. According to my brother, Nick, who wrote me a separate letter…" Jarrod dug in his coat's inside pocket and as he pulled out an envelope, another envelope fell out. Jarrod folded that one and put it in an outside coat pocket and handed the first envelope to Adam who took it and stopping under a streetlight, pulled out the paper and read.

"Jarrod,

Mother doesn't want you to know but Father's been sick—very sick. Audra cries all the time worrying that he may die—which he might, it's that bad, and I've had to handle things and you know I'm not good at that. Mother will be mad if she knows I told you. She says that your studies shouldn't be disrupted but I might need your help if Father isn't better soon. I'll let you know if you need to come home but don't come yet. Money is getting to be tight as we have had early snows in the mountains and dangerous frosts and some of the young stock, those that haven't been killed by bears or wolves who are coming down from the timberlines for food, are wandering, looking for grass and we've found frozen carcasses with their throats ripped out and haunches removed. I also think there are some hiders helping themselves to our stock.

"I thought you should know about Father since Mother always writes you as if everything is fine—you know how she is and how much she wants you to do well. We all do. Eugene is asking about going off to school when he is of age—see what a bad influence you are.

Nick"

"I'm sorry," Adam said. "I really am." He handed the letter back to Jarrod who folded it and put it away in his coat's inside pocket.

"I know, Adam—thank you. This was the corker to a bad day but then, well, the evening is yet to come. And each day—who knows? My father might improve tomorrow." Jarrod gave Adam a brave smile but Adam knew his friend and Adam threw his arm around Jarrod's shoulders and the two friends walked in comradely silence until they reached the tavern where many students were already gathered and when Adam and Jarrod walked in, greetings sprang up from the other patrons.

Jarrod and Adam hung their coats and hats on the pegs by the front door as the tavern was warm with a huge, wide-mouthed fireplace that roared with congenial heat. Jarrod ordered a beef sandwich cut in half and two large mugs of coffee with cream. In a short while, the buxom waitress who the boys knew as Amy, brought back a large, over-filled sandwich on two thick slices of brown bread accompanied by two steaming mugs.

"Oh, Amy, my love," Adam said as he held her broad hand, coarse from washing too many mugs and plates, "if I thought I had a chance in your heart, I'd spark you for this sandwich alone." He kissed her hand.

Amy grinned and pulled her hand away. "You only love me 'cause I told Barney to put in some extra slices of beef. I know that you two are always starvin' along with the rest of this group of no-accounts." And with that, she walked away and Jarrod gave her a playful swat on her broad rear.

She turned around and pointed to Jarrod. "You had best not be too familiar, my beautiful boy, or I'll be takin' you as serious—I could use a young husband to warm my bed—and my cold feet." And she rolled her eyes in an expression of coyness and the other students laughed at the friendly teasing.

So the room was filled with chatter and argument from the Harvard men, some moving from table to table talking about various matters. Adam pausing from eating his large half of the sandwich to argue the point of whether or not morality had anything to do with intelligence.

Zedock Taylor was sitting two tables over and talking across the table in between his and Adam's, Zedock said that some men are too intelligent to be bothered by morality; they were superior.

"I disagree," Adam said. "I think that the more intelligent a person is, the more he must know that morality is important to the functioning of society. No man lives in a vacuum, other people must be considered. Morality governs behavior."

"I would expect such a bourgeois attitude from you, Adam. You aren't one of the upper crust—you don't know that laws and rules don't apply to the highest echelons of society—we make our own morality."

Adam was beginning to enjoy his debate with Zedock and leaned forward in his seat to make a point when Isabelle Henry and her friend Beatrice Severn walked into the tavern. As soon as she was noticed, the noise level dropped.

Adam sighed; Isabelle was here to upset his digestion as she always managed to find something with which to violently and shrilly disagree. She and Beatrice walked to the round table next to Jarrod and Adam who sat with another student who had also been discussing the morality issue and a few other students were standing nearby to listen and adding their opinions when they could.

"Well," Beatrice said, "mind if we sit here?" She looked at the two men who were already sitting there and one of them replied that, no, he didn't mind and the other one just shook his head.

"Oh, Isabelle," Zedock Taylor said, "Glad you're here because I think Jarrod there could do with a bit of enlightenment. We had a 'heated discussion' in class today and I think that Jarrod is a bit behind the times as far as treating women as equals."

"Oh?" Isabelle said as she took off her hat and placed it on the table top. Amy was going to come over and ask Isabelle and Beatrice what they would like but she stopped. She had been witness to the arguments that Isabelle often started but this time it was that other troublemaker, Zedock Taylor, who was doing the stirring of the pot.

"Yes. Jarrod disagreed that women should be on juries." Zedock smiled.

"Now wait a minute," Jarrod said, "that's not in context."

Isabelle's mouth was firm and she spoke in a clipped voice. "And is that because you don't believe that women are intelligent enough or are we too emotional?"

"It's not that at all. We were discussing the term "jury of one's peers" and I said that if a man is on trial, then his jury should be composed of men. What is a peer except one's equal." And as soon as the words left his mouth, Jarrod knew he had misspoken—he had given Isabelle fodder.

"So you're saying that women aren't equal to men? You biased, short-sighted, bigoted, sexist know-it-all! How dare you say that women aren't men's equals?" Isabelle stood up and the males closest to her shrunk back. It was only Zedock who was enjoying seeing her tear into Jarrod.

"We were talking semantics and the way the law is written. It says 'peers' which means people who have equal standing with one another and unfortunately, in today's world that's not so. I also said that if a woman is on trial then her jury should be composed wholly of women, her peers."

"Oh, so now you're saying that the law should differentiate between men and women. It's not enough that we don't have all the rights that men have but now we even commit different crimes than men and so should be judged differently!" Isabelle was red-faced, her color high.

"You are a barbarian," Beatrice said, breathing even heavier in her anger. "And I suppose that you think that women even commit different crimes!"

"Well," Adam said, entering the fray to take some of the attention from Jarrod who looked as if he was about to break, "men certainly have more opportunities to commit crimes but it's been shown that women who kill do so in ways different than men and they aren't necessarily more 'gentle' in the manner. There are also different motivations among the sexes and a man may not understand the reason for the crime a woman commits and vice versa."

"Is that so?" Isabelle said to Adam. "Well, suppose we have a little challenge? I'll devise a perfect crime- on paper, of course-and you do so as well. You can even use Jarrod there as your consultant. You, of course, have the margin since women aren't yet admitted to study law or I'd find me a female law student to assist me. I'll use Beatrice as my 'accomplice.' Then we can present our cases to a jury of our peers, so to speak and they can vote as to who would have the best chance of getting off scot-free. I'll bring six other female students with me and you can choose six male students."

Adam shook his head and chuckled. "Don't you have an idea how that would come out? I think it might be divided along lines of sex."

"Oh, are you afraid?" Isabelle asked.

"No," Adam said and took a sip of his coffee. "I just have more important things to take up my time; I don't have the time or inclination for games."

"You coward," Isabelle said.

"Look, Isabelle," Jarrod said, "I'll concede to your point. I don't want to argue with you or anyone else—not tonight."

"You didn't mind arguing with me this morning," Zedock said as he walked among the tables. "You were all too eager to point out that women couldn't be considered as a man's peer."

Beatrice turned to Zedock. "He'll argue with you because you're a man. Jarrod won't argue with a woman; he doesn't want to lose and be shown as the pompous fool he is."

Jarrod shook his head to himself and looked at the two females. "You need to learn when to stop," Jarrod said and stood up. "I think this world would be a better place without you and Isabelle always trying to stir up a hornets' nest of trouble. One day you may go too far—and this may be the day." Jarrod wound his way between the tables to get his coat and left the tavern. Since Jarrod hadn't finished his sandwich, Adam picked it up, drained his coffee mug and stuck the last bit of his own sandwich in his mouth. Then he took off after Jarrod, snatching his coat, fedora and scarf as he hurried out.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

The night had become colder and Adam, as he hurried to catch up with his friend, regretted that he had left his gloves at home unlike Jarrod. He grabbed Jarrod by the arm. "Hey," Adam said when Jarrod stopped, "you forgot your sandwich." Adam held it out.

"You eat it—my appetite is gone." Jarrod's shoulders had dropped and he looked exhausted.

"Well, hold it until I put on my coat." Jarrod held the remainder of the sandwich while Adam slipped on his heavy black coat, wrapped his woolen scarf around his neck and then buttoned up his coat and turned up the collar to keep out the cold wind that swirled the leaves around them. Adam took back the sandwich and began to eat and they continued to walk in silence.

"Don't let Isabelle get to you," Adam said as he swallowed a bite of the sandwich.

"I wouldn't normally," Jarrod said, "but tonight…" Jarrod stopped. "Don't be insulted, Adam, but I think I'll just take a walk by myself; I have some things to think about and I would be very bad company."

"Sure," Adam said. "I understand." He watched as Jarrod walked off into the dark night and then Adam hurried home. He still had class work to do and besides that, he was cold.

Adam opened his eyes and realized that it was the sound of a key in the door latch that woke him. Jarrod was finally home and Adam reached for his pocket watch on the nightstand. He held in at an angle to catch the light from the streetlamp outside their window and he saw that it was past 11:00. The light from the sitting room lamp was lit and Adam heard the sound of the grate of the furnace being opened and coal shoveled and dropped inside. Adam rolled over on his side and pulled his covers up to his ears and fell asleep again and when he awoke in the morning, Jarrod was asleep in his bed so Adam made the coffee using the same coffee grounds from that morning and the morning before. He would be happy once Jarrod cashed his check and he expected his money from home to arrive any day as it was almost the end of the month and rent would soon be due.

"Hey, Jarrod, get out of bed! Breakfast," Adam called out. He had sliced the stale bread and toasted it on the surface of the small stove in their quarters. In the morning once they had roused, the small apartment was warmed by a tiny stove in the space that served as a kitchen. Adam browned the bread by placing it in a cast iron fry pan and letting the heat do its work. The toast wasn't as good without butter but they had run out of that last week. Adam made a mental note that he and Jarrod would have to be more conservative in their use of their provisions.

Adam poured two mugs and sat down at the small wooden table and ate one piece of toast that he dunked in his weak coffee. But it was warm and food. Jarrod came out with his robe wrapped around him and his black hair tousled and sat down at his plate and stared at the meager portions.

"Eat up," Adam said. He raised his white mug to his lips with his left hand—there was a chip on the lip on the other side of the mug and if he raised in with his right hand, the chip annoyed his mouth. "When I receive my money," Adam said, "I'm buying a new mug. I'll smash this one on the pavement."

"Don't," Jarrod said as he hefted his mug. "We might one day have company and what would they use?"

"I don't anticipate doing any entertaining," Adam said.

"Well, I am going to cash my draft from home and buy us some decent food." Jarrod rose and went to the sofa where he had thrown his coat when he came home and reached inside the pocket for the envelope that held his draft. He held up the coat and stuck his hand in all the pockets, one after the other. "Damn it," Jarrod mumbled.

"What is it?" Adam asked, turning to see his friend digging in all the coat pockets.

"I can't find the draft—or the envelope." Jarrod said. "And I thought yesterday was a bad day." Jarrod threw his coat across the room. "Damn it all!"

"Wait," Adam said, "trace back your steps…" But he was interrupted by a sharp knock on the front door. He looked at Jarrod.

"And you said we wouldn't be doing any entertaining," Jarrod remarked and Adam grinned. Since he was dressed, he went to the door and opening it, saw two constables.

"Are you Mr. Jarrod Barkley?"

"No," Adam said. He turned to call Jarrod but he was already at the door beside Adam.

"I'm Jarrod Barkley. What can I do for you?"

"Is this yours, Mr. Barkley?" One of the constables held up the envelope that Jarrod hadn't been able to find.

"Oh, yes." Jarrod said and turned to Adam and the two young men slapped each other on their backs.

"Looks like we'll eat tonight!" Adam said. "Maybe we'll share a steak."

"I'm so happy that I'll treat you to a separate steak. You'll think you're back eating the prime beef of the Ponderosa!" He turned to the two policemen at the door. "Thank you so much, officers, for returning my property. This is all the money I have for the next month." Jarrod reached for the envelope but the constable held it back. Jarrod was confused.

"I'll verify that he's Jarrod Barkley," Adam said, "If that's what you need." Adam looked at the faces of the two constables and he tried to read them but both men had blank expressions and their inquiry had been clipped with no explanation as to how they came to be in possession of the envelope.

"Would you come with us down to the station, Mr. Barkley? We have some questions to ask you."

"Why can't you ask him here?" Adam said. He was becoming angry. "It's his bank draft, I can verify that and who he is as I said. You can wire his family and they'll also tell you that it's a legitimate check."

The two constables turned to Adam and the obviously higher-ranked one said in an authoritative voice, "Unless you're his lawyer, I would suggest you be quiet. Mr. Barkley, please dress quickly and accompany us willingly. We don't want to make things any more unpleasant than they need be."

Jarrod and Adam became serious.

"I'll only be a moment," Jarrod said to the constables who stepped into the small apartment, shutting the door behind them.

"I'll go with you," Adam said. "I have a feeling this is more serious than we may think."

"Thanks, Adam, but what about class?"

"Don't worry about it," Adam said and the two young men went to dress for their trip to the police station.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Adam pulled out his pocket watch; almost ten-thirty. He had been sitting for nearly three hours while Jarrod had been taken into the back rooms of the station. He looked around the outer room which contained a desk where a man in uniform sat doing paperwork and directing people who came in. Uniformed officers walked through on their way in or out. Adam was about to rise and ask the clerk if he knew how long Mr. Jarrod Barkley would be detained when a constable came out from the back and asked for him by name. Adan rose and followed the officer. As they passed a small room, Adam glanced in and saw Beatrice Severn who met his eyes.

Beatrice rose from the chair in which she had been sitting and her chest heaving with emotion, her eyes red with crying, she pointed a finger at Adam. "He's the other one! He's the other one who did it! Him! I know it! I know it! They hated her!"

Adam stared, open-mouthed. He was shocked at the vitriolic accusation. The officer rushed Adam into a small room, showed him a chair and one of the men who had come for Jarrod, the one who had done all the talking, and another officer sat across from him. The officer who had brought him there stood at the door. Neither of the seated men rose from their seats nor did they offer him their hands.

"What was Beatrice Severn talking about?" Adam asked the officers. "What did Miss Severn mean when she said that I did it? Did what?"

"We'll ask the questions, son. Now sit down, please." Adam complied but his mind was racing with questions. He had a feeling of doom; something bad had happened and if he and Jarrod weren't careful, they would be blamed for the incident—whatever it was.

"I'm Inspector Martin and this," he motioned to the officer who had come to the apartment, "is Officer Drebbs."

"Adam Cartwright."

"Yes, we know." The Inspector cleared his throat and began to ask Adam questions about the time they spent at the Courtyard Tavern.

"Were you present when Miss Isabelle Henry and Mr. Barkley had a disagreement?"

"I wouldn't call it a disagreement—more like a misunderstanding."

"So you were present?"

"Yes."

"Now, remember carefully—did Mr. Barkley threaten Miss Henry, either directly or by implication?" Inspector Martin watched Adam carefully. He prided himself on being able to read people and to tell if they were lying and although the young man before him wasn't lying and probably would avoid doing so—of that he was sure—he also knew that this dark-haired young man was clever enough to be honorably evasive. His eyes reflected an intelligence that the Inspector rarely came across in his line of work. Mr. Jarrod Barkley had the same look. Their keenness of mind resulted in guarded responses to his questions. It was strange, he considered, how a man could never hide his stupidity or his intelligence even if he said nothing.

"Not that I could discern. It appeared to me that Jarrod was merely giving her good advice on how to behave in the future."

Inspector Martin suppressed a smile of amusement. Clever—this young man was a clever one.

"Did you leave the tavern with Mr. Barkley?"

Adam paused. He knew what the Inspector wanted; for him to say that Jarrod left alone which he did but there was more to it.

"I asked you a simple enough question," Inspector Martin said. "Did you leave with Mr. Barkley?"

Adam looked back and forth at the two men. "No. He left but I followed him out a half a minute or so afterwards."

"You and he share quarters, correct?"

"Yes."

"Did you, Mr. Cartwright, go directly to your rooms after you left the tavern?"

"Yes."

"Did Mr. Barkley?" Adam hesitated and the two constables waited.

Adam had a natural revulsion to lying and couldn't help but answer with the truth. "No," he said quietly.

"Have you any idea where he went?" Inspector Martin patiently waited.

"Do I need a lawyer?" Adam asked.

"Have you broken the law?"

"Not that I'm aware."

"Then why would you need a lawyer? Now please answer. Do you know where Mr. Barkley went?"

"He had earlier received bad news from his family and was distressed. He wanted to walk alone to think things through. A body needs time alone sometimes."

"So Mr. Barkley went walking in the cold?"

"Yes."

"Did he eventually return to the quarters?"

"Yes."

"Do you know what time?"

"A little after ten."

"And how did he look?"

"I don't know. I only heard him come in. I went back to sleep and this morning, he was asleep in the other bed."

The two constables rose and then Adam did as well.

"Are we through? May I see Mr. Barkley?"

The Inspector gave him an insincere smile. "Thank you, Mr. Cartwright. You may go now. We will call you in again if we have any more questions."

"What about Jarrod—Mr. Barkley?"

"He'll be staying with us for an indeterminate time."

"Well, may I see him? I mean, what happened? Has he been accused of a crime? And if he has, what crime? I would like to be able to tell his family something. Please-may I see him?"

Inspector Martin turned to the constable standing at the door. "Wilcox, take Mr. Cartwright to see the prisoner."

"Prisoner? On what charge has he been arrested?"

"Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Cartwright." Inspector Martin said and then he left Adam to Officer Wilcox who ushered him down a hall and to a large, cold room broken into barred cells. In one of them was an old man, lying on his cot, snoring, and in another sat an obviously distraught Jarrod Barkley.

After being checked for any weapons, Adam was allowed in the cell with Jarrod. The floor and the walls were of stone and there was a stand with a metal water pitcher and a chamber pot in the corner. The whole back area was heated by a large stove in the far corner. Jarrod sat dejectedly on a cot.

"What happened?" Adam asked Jarrod.

"Isabelle Henry was found strangled last night and they say I did it because my letter from home—the one with the draft in it was found by her body. They concur that it fell out of my pocket as I strangled her."

"Oh, hell," Adam said as he dropped on the cot next to Jarrod. "Isabelle dead. That explains Beatrice's accusation." Jarrod looked at him questioningly. "She said that I was guilty of something—I had no idea at the time. Jarrod, don't take this question the wrong way, but do you have any idea how your letter came to be by her body?"

"No. Her body was found on Market Street and I didn't walk there—it's even on the other side of town. I can't think how the letter could have gotten there." Jarrod dropped his head in his hands. "When I decided to become a lawyer, I never thought that I would also be a defendant. If I ever get out of this, I promise I'll do my best to give a vigorous defense to anyone unjustly accused of a crime. It's a horrible position to find oneself." Jarrod sighed. "I'm going before the judge for arraignment this afternoon. I meet with the lawyer before and no matter what he says, I'll plead innocent since I am."

Adam put his hand on Jarrod's shoulder reassuringly. "I know you are. I'll wire your family and let them..."

Jarrod straightened up quickly. "No! Don't wire them. They have enough troubles with my father's illness and my mother, she'd lose her mind with worry. Just don't, Adam, please. One thing you can do for me-if you would keep your ears open, let me know if you hear anything that would help my case. They're giving me a public defender and, well, I hope he's good because I'm in a hell of a lot of trouble. Anything you hear—anything you see—we can tell him; it might help."

"Time's up," the constable said standing outside the cell.

"Just a moment," Adam said to him. "I'll come to see you this evening. I'll do everything I can." Adam stood up to go and glanced down at Jarrod who looked as if he was already a condemned man.

"Thank you," Jarrod said. "Oh, one other thing—they won't allow me to have the draft. I was going to endorse it and have you cash it but they say it's evidence."

"Don't worry," Adam said offering a weak smile. "I'll wire my pa and tell him that there's been a problem with your money from home and ask him to send me a bit extra." Adam paused. "Jarrod, if I told my father about your trouble…"

"No," Jarrod said. "Please, Adam, he might tell my family and the way things are…please don't do that."

"All right. I won't tell anyone."

"Thank you, Adam. I appreciate having a friend like you."

Adam tried to think of something clever to say since Jarrod's eyes were brimming with tears of gratitude but he couldn't. He put out his hand and Jarrod shook it. Then Adam left the cell, heard the door clank shut and the key in the lock and walked out; he didn't want to look back at Jarrod sitting in the cold cell.

Adam decided once he stepped out into the crisp air and looked at the bright sky, that he would talk to Professor Donnelly. Professor Donnelly with his cool, logical mind would be able to advise Adam since Adam's mind was spinning out of control. He needed the professor's guidance on what to do next since Jarrod wouldn't allow his family to be contacted and Adam could think of nothing else since in his mind, going to family was the next step but for Jarrod to jump over that step, well, Adam didn't know where he would land.

Tucking his scarf into his neckline and buttoning up his coat, Adam left for the campus. He had already missed his first two classes of the day so if he missed the next two, it didn't much matter. Some clouds moved over the sun and the day suddenly became gloomy and foreboding.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Professor Donnelly's office door was open but Adam knocked on it and waited to be called to enter before he did.

"Well, hello, Mr. Cartwright. Please sit. Take off your hat and coat and share a cup of coffee with me. I was just about to pour myself another cup. " The professor motioned and Adam removed his outer wear and sat in a red leather chair on the other side of the broad, maple desk. The professor's desk was tidy except for two stacks of students' papers; one stack he had graded, the other stack of papers was to be graded. Adam saw that the paper was before him was Zedock Taylor's, previously graded pages being turned face down in a stack as the professor read. Nevertheless, Adam noticed that Professor Donnelly had made many remarks and corrections on the page that was face-up.

Adam ran his hands over the fine leather of the chair in which he sat and the feel and smell of the leather as well as the color reminded him of his father's favorite chair at home and he was hit with a sudden longing for his family. He desired the security of the Ponderosa and the comfort of his own room.

Adam remembered how, after living in various boarding houses as a small child and the hardships of managing to live in a covered wagon for so very long, how he had felt when he finally saw their new home, as small as the structure was. He had been so happy to have a bedroom and a bed and even though he had to share his room with Hoss who slept on the pull-out of the trundle bed, it was still his room. And their house was warm and he always had enough to eat. But he was pulled from his reverie by Professor Donnelly who placed a fragrant cup of coffee before him on the desk.

Adam picked up the mixture of steamy, milky coffee from the coffeepot that stood on the professor's bookcase. Adam took it with thanks and sipped the contents admiring how rich the coffee mixture was.

"My own blend," Professor Donnelly said as he sat down. "Turkish coffee. I have my own supplier who brings it in—actually, I suspect he smuggles it in to avoid tariffs and such but I depend on him—don't know how I could survive without his supplies. This fragrant brew is one of my vices. Do you taste the hint of cinnamon, the touch of cardamom?"

"Yes, sir, I do. I don't think I've ever tasted such exemplary coffee."

"It's roasted to perfection—just enough to bring out the richness, the liquor within the beans. I'm glad it's to your liking since I prepare the whole pot to my personal tastes. I will drink all of it just to stay awake and alert while I read these soporific treatises to inanity that attempt to pass as scholarship. Now, with what can I help you?" The professor sat back and steepled his fingers.

"This chair reminds me of my father," Adam said. And then he smiled and blushed slightly.

"We all have longings for times when we were young and protected. Don't be ashamed of honest emotions, Mr. Cartwright. You do remind me of myself when I was young and standing on the verge of beginning my life—my whole future ahead-intelligent, attractive and looking forward to whatever came to me." He gave a sardonic chuckle. "I am closer to the end of my journey now and I hope that your future is brighter than mine ended up being."

Adam was confused. He had such admiration for Professor Donnelly that he couldn't see why the man wouldn't be gloriously proud of what he had accomplished. But there were rumors that the professor drank, that his wife had left him years ago because of that and his womanizing. It was said that the professor enjoyed women far too much and that in a pinch, even a young girl would suffice. But Adam hadn't seen any of that in Professor Donnelly and he wasn't one to put much stock in gossip.

"I'm flattered to be compared to you, Professor."

The professor gave a slight chuckle. "Now, on what business have you come although I can guess. It's about the arrest of Jarrod Barkley, isn't it?"

"Yes," Adam said. "I need advice and since I think so highly of you and your ability to think, to reason, I was hoping you could help me. I also am not familiar with lawyers and such in Boston. They're engaging a public defender for Jarrod but I was wondering if maybe anyone you knew would take the case gratis—pro bono, I believe is the term."

"Ah, yes, for the good of the people. Well, Adam, what is the evidence they have against Jarrod?"

"A letter he received from home was found beside…" it suddenly hit him that Isabelle Henry was dead. He visualized her limp, cold body lying in some street and with Jarrod's letter from home nearby and for a brief moment, he doubted Jarrod's innocence. "A letter he received from his family was beside the body."

Professor Donnelly sat back and his brow furrowed. "That is damning, isn't it? Did he have the letter on him earlier, do you know?"

"He did." Adam looked down, composed his thoughts and looked back up. "But Jarrod didn't do it—I know him too well and I'm sure of it. I don't know how to help him, though. He won't let me inform his family—his father's ill and they are having financial problems and Jarrod doesn't want to worry his family, especially his mother. I really am at a loss."

Professor Donnelly pursed his lips. "I tell you what, Mr. Cartwright, I'll speak to the law professors, tell them what you've told me and I'm sure that, having the same high opinion of Mr. Barkley as you and I do that they will then inform me—if they don't take it upon themselves-what to do next."

"Thank you, Professor," Adam said rising from the chair. He felt that a huge weight had been lifted from him. Adam put out his hand and shook the professor's hand which he extended with a smile.

"So glad to be of service," he said. "Mr. Barkley is a fine young man."

Adam left and Professor Donnelly sat back down. He picked up his pencil and went back to the paper he had been grading but found he couldn't concentrate. His mind went back to the earlier visit from Zedock Taylor who had told him with a great deal of pride in being the bearer of the news, about Jarrod Barkley having been arrested for murder—prideful indeed. It seemed that Miss Severn had spread the slander to anyone who would listen, that Jarrod Barkley, after threatening Isabelle Henry at the Courtyard Tavern, had—according to Miss Severn—waited until Miss Henry had left the tavern and separated from Miss Severn's company, to then attack Isabelle Henry and strangle her. Mr. Barkley's letter in the vicinity of the body seemed a damning piece of evidence indeed. But Professor Donnelly wondered if that would be enough to ensure the suspicion and adjudication of guilt. He looked down at Zedock's paper and putting all the sheets together, set it aside; he would grade it later; Zedock may still redeem himself and pass the class as he was now failing miserably. The young man had—so far— shown no capability for logical thinking and for deduction.

Adam went home to the cold, dark apartment after the last class of the day; it was the only class he had attended and he couldn't keep his mind on balustrades and how to ensure their elegance and graceful curve in Rococo architecture.

But before Adam had headed for home, he had stopped by the P.O and his letter from home was waiting, the draft inside. He started the furnace and made a mental note to ask the landlady for more coal; she charged them for each scuttle over the nominal four per month in the winter months but it seemed that when Adam received his money, he became initially profligate. Adam also knew that he would have another disagreement with Mrs. Flowers, the landlady, because she would try, as she always did, to limit how high he could fill the scuttle once she opened the cellar where the coal was dumped. She would watch over him or Jarrod, whichever of the two it was, and decry their efforts to fill the scuttle as high as possible. It drove her mad when Adam would shake the metal pail to settle the shiny chunks so that he could pile on more coal. Adam would chide her for her unattractive, miserly ways and it was only because she realized how fortunate she was to have the two young men in her house that she did not carry her protestations any further.

Adam pulled off his overcoat and then he realized that he had left his long woolen scarf somewhere—more than likely in his structural engineering class. It was only due to his distraction about Jarrod's arrest that he hadn't noticed that it had fallen somewhere, probably on the floor—for that must be what had happened. Sighing in disgust with himself, he unbuttoned his jacket and sat down. It was still too chilly in the rooms to take off his suit jacket so he sat down on the sofa after lighting the lamp and pulled out the letter from home. He looked at the draft and noticed that it was for ten dollars more than the usual thirty. Seeing his father's familiar handwriting was almost as soothing as hearing his father's voice and Adam sighed. He could picture his father at his desk writing the letter and the smooth vellum under his fingertips was comforting.

"Dear Adam,

I hope this letter finds you well and that you are assiduous in your studies. I have enclosed more money than usual as we had a very good price for a stand of timber we cut and milled.

It looks as if the almanac is correct and we will face a bad winter; we are waking up to frost on the grass and yesterday was a dusting of snow. I fear that we may lose stock, but as I have always lectured, do not look for trouble that has not yet visited.

We are all well and Joseph still asks at least once a week how long you will be gone. He is so young that to him a week seems a year. But I must confess that it does seem ages since I last laid eyes on you. I look forward to the day when you have your degree and will return home.

But I am becoming sentimental in my old age. Enjoy your youth and your time at school, my son, as it passes so quickly that tomorrow is soon a memory.

Your brother Hoss and Hop Sing both send well-wishes and Roy Coffee sends his regards. We all wish you good health. I look forward to your next letter.

Your loving father"

Adam put down the letter and took a shaky breath. He closed his eyes. "Oh, Pa, I wish you were here to tell me what to do." It was rare for Adam to feel at such a loss but he was too worried to be able to think clearly; Jarrod needed him and Adam was afraid he would fail his friend.

Being too tired from the day, Adam barely had enough energy to rouse himself from the sofa, but he needed people around him. Usually he was a solitary man. Even rooming with Jarrod, they often remained silent for hours, each pursuing their own activities. Nevertheless, after having lived in a house with so many people all interacting that in times of stress, Adam wanted the bustle of life about him.

He stood up and put his overcoat back on, regretting the loss of his scarf; Adam hated the cold so this time, he fetched his gloves and slipped them on as well before he headed out. He hoped that he could cash his draft at the Courtyard Tavern or put his meal on credit until the next day; he wouldn't borrow any money from another student. If not, he would come home and have the wedge of dried-out cheese or go without eating completely. And he longed for one of Hop Sing's meals. He would never again need urging to finish his meal or would he pass up dessert. Never.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

"Amy," Adam said as he was hanging up his coat and saw her, "could I cash my check from home here? I'll endorse it over."

"Don't you know?" Amy said. "Today is free soup for all young and beautiful Harvard men and you qualify, my lovely." She patted him on the cheek.

"I can't let you do that," Adam said.

"I don't recall askin' you. Now go sit down. It's clam chowder." She winked at him and Adam smiled.

"I do love you, Amy," he said. Adam then went to the table at which he was being called over.

"Okay, Adam," one of the students said, moving his chair so that Adam could fit in, "fill us in on what happened to Jarrod." The others listened attentively and the whole room became hushed.

Adam looked around; the word had spread rapidly and it seemed that everyone at Harvard must know. "Jarrod has been wrongly accused for the killing of Isabelle Henry. He didn't do it—I'm sure of it."

Voices rose as they all agreed with Adam and then Amy placed a huge stoneware bowl of chowder before Adam and also two thick slices of buttered brown bread. She chucked him under the chin as a way to show not only her affection for him and the absent Jarrod, but also to show her support of him. Amy had worked at the tavern for so long and she was on friendly relations with many of the young men over the years but this young man and his black-haired friend were special-kind, smart and friendly with just the right amount of playfulness in them to make her believe, even for a few moments, that she was young and lovely.

The chowder was hot and salty and thick with the large, chewy pieces of chopped clam and Adam realized that he hadn't eaten since morning and that had only been the slice of toast. The crusty bread and the coating of sweet butter was better than any food he had ever tasted; he thought how hunger made everything taste good. And then he wondered what Jarrod had been served for dinner.

"What evidence do they have?" another student asked.

Adam paused to swallow but before he could speak, the tavern door opened and Beatrice Severn came in.

"I thought I'd find you here," Beatrice said angrily as she strode over to the table where Adam sat. "I'll bet you helped Jarrod strangle Isabelle, didn't you. You murderer!" Beatrice shoved one of the students who was standing next to Adam and she leaned forward and spat in Adam's chowder.

"Hey!" Adam shouted and stood up. "Damn you, Beatrice! I didn't have anything to do with Isabelle's death and Jarrod didn't either and here you go and…" Adam was frustrated. Had Beatrice been a man, Adam would have gladly flattened her with a well-placed punch. He had been in a few fights in his youth in Nevada and wrestled with Hoss many a time and could easily have taken out Beatrice despite her bulk.

Beatrice raised her chin and turned and flounced away. Adam sat down heavily. Some of the other students offered to buy him another bowl of soup but Amy came over to the table and spirited away the bowl.

"Now, don't you worry," she said. "I'll get you a fresh one. And here," she placed a mug of coffee before him. "Warm yourself with this."

Adam looked at her with grateful eyes and for the first time in years, he felt he would cry, wanted to cry because he had been shown a kindness and also to rid himself of all the pent-up frustrations of the day.

The night was bitter and Adam built up the fire in the furnace and lay on the sofa, his overcoat covering him for the time as he waited for the room to heat up, his boots on the floor where he had dropped them. Adam was weary and his mind went over and over what he needed to do. Tonight he needed to read three assignments to catch up with the classes he missed. Tomorrow he needed to cash his check, see Jarrod and go talk to Professor Donnelly about Jarrod; he wondered if the professor had yet found the time to talk to anyone from the law school staff. But his full belly and the warmth from the room and his coat caused him to nod off and soon he was fast asleep.

He awoke with a start, initially disoriented but then Adam realized that he was on the sofa and had almost slept through the whole night. He sat up and lit the lamp on the small table by the sofa.

"Oh, hell," he muttered to himself as he rubbed his face. He hadn't read any of his assignments and he glanced at the mantle clock ticking on top of the bookcase; it was almost 5 in the morning. Adam calculated that he would try to read as much as he could before he left for his first two classes, then rush to the bank to cash his draft, go to the police headquarters and see Jarrod and then return to campus for his afternoon classes. Only then would he have the leisure to see Professor Donnelly. It then worried Adam how Jarrod would make up the time he lost from classes by sitting in that dismal cell. He stood up after perching on the edge of the sofa for a few seconds longer and stretched. He heard a sound of footsteps outside his rooms and a slight knock.

Adam listened carefully. He knew there were only two other lodgers on the floor—an older woman, Mrs. Waring, who kept a small tabby and fed the animal bits of bloody beef liver and a man who worked in a chemist's shop who came and went without notice. It occurred to Adam that perhaps what he had heard was one of them. But then he saw the paper partly slipped under the door. He dashed to the door and quickly pulled it open and looked around but the shabby hall was empty. He thought he head the outside door close and went to the stairs and looked down as best he could in the darkness but there were no echoing footsteps; whoever had left the note was gone. Adam took to the stairs and opened the outside door and stepped into the street, the wind chilling him and the cobblestones were icy under his bare feet. No one. He returned to his rooms.

He bent down and picked up the folded paper, unfolded it and read:

"Meet me in the alley near Union Wharf at 6:00 this morning. I have information that will help prove your accused friend is innocent. I will wait only a half hour. Don't disappoint your friend."

Adam stared at the block letters but nothing was familiar. He glanced again to the clock and calculated that it would take him a half hour to reach the wharf so he needn't leave yet; if he did, he would just stand in the cold, stamping his feet to keep them warm and waiting. He wished he had a gun to take with him for protection as Adam had no inkling who the bearer of the exonerating information might be. And what information could this person have? Maybe it was "persons." Then where would he be? Adam felt a chill that was totally unrelated to the lack of heat in the apartments.

"Think, think, think," Adam told himself. He was tired and cold and hungry but he sat back down and rested his head in his hands. He was a mere nineteen year old student and he longed to turn the problem over to someone more competent. And then he heard his father's voice as he had said to Adam so many times: "Adam, you can't do everything yourself despite the fact that you think you can. ASK for help." Adam considered going to the police with the note but then, Inspector Martin wasn't Roy Coffee. And yet…

Adam cleaned himself up, quickly shaving and then dressed in a fresh shirt. He put on his suit jacket and then his outerwear, pulling on his gloves and hat. He picked up the note and read it again. Pithy and to the point. He pulled out his pocket watch—forty minutes to get to the wharf so he tucked the note in his pocket and left in the dark and the cold to meet with whomever it was who had left the note.

As he had walked, the sun had been rising but the day was gray and dreary. He looked up at the gray sky and feared it was going to snow. As Adam rounded a corner, he saw two hansom cabs that had the insignia of the Boston Police Department on their side doors. Adam stopped. He considered whether he should go on but decided he would; he had considered bringing in the police anyway and here they were. Perhaps they had arrested Isabelle's killer, the person who left the note, and then Jarrod would be cleared. Adam headed toward the alley and was stopped by a constable standing guard.

"Sorry, sir, can't enter. Please go another way."

"But I received this note and…" Adam pulled the note out of his pocket to show the officer when he heard his name called. He looked down the alley and saw it was Inspector Martin.

"Let Mr. Cartwright through," Inspector Martin said and the guard, after looking Adam over carefully, allowed him to pass into the alley. The place smelled of urine and rotting fish but Adam could see what initially looked like large sacks lying on the cobblestones. Inspector Martin called him over and Adam caught his breath at the sight of Beatrice Severn lying on the street, her face battered, her lips blue and her eyes staring vacantly at the gray sky. Her complexion was as white as the belly of a fish. But what struck fear in Adam was that his lost scarf was wound tightly around her neck.

"That's my scarf," Adam said. "She was strangled with my scarf."

"And you came back for it. Realized it was a damning piece of evidence."

"What? No, not at all. I lost it yesterday—somewhere on campus. I came because I received this note early this morning. It was slipped under my door. Obviously someone wanted me here when you found the body. You can't think that if I killed her that I wouldn't have high-tailed it out of here when I saw this place crawling with police. Read the note" Adam handed the paper to Inspector Martin.

The Inspector read it, reached into his uniform pocket and pulled out another piece of paper, looking back and forth from one to the other. Then he folded both and slipped them back into his pocket.

"You need to come down to the station with me, son."

"But you can't believe I did this, that I killed her. I told you that I received that note; you saw what it said. That's the only reason I'm here. I guess I should have gone to the police with it but since it concerned Jarrod… " Adam realized it was useless to argue and sighed heavily in resignation.

"Officer Jancey, Middleton, you two take this young man down to the station and hold him for questioning." He motioned to another officer who promptly came.

"Now wait a minute—I haven't done anything," Adam protested. "I have rights, you know."

"I'm well aware of your rights and I would suggest that you answer all of my questions with the utmost candor when I have the chance to present them. And go along quietly; don't make me arrest you and take you down in manacles." Inspector Martin gave Adam a small smile and Adam shook his head in disgust and went along with the officers to the station and as they rode along the streets of Boston, flakes of soft snow began to fall.

"Nothing is going my way," Adam muttered.

"What?" the officer sitting beside him said.

"Nothing. Just cursing fate." And Adam looked out at the falling snow.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

The stiff wooden chair was uncomfortable but then Adam supposed that it was all part of the interrogation process. He cleared his throat and his mind raced to consider his classes that he was again missing. An officer came to the door and quietly spoke to the one posted at the door. He called Inspector Martin over who stepped outside to speak to the constable who had arrived. Adam strained to catch any words but he couldn't hear them. Nevertheless, he was certain they were discussing him. Inspector Martin returned and sat back down opposite Adam.

"Now tell me again about the earlier incidents last evening." He had a slight smirk on his face which put Adam on guard.

"Look, I've told you over and over…the note was slipped under my door early this morning. I heard a knock—I opened the door and saw no one in the hall or on the stairs but then I didn't open the door immediately—not until I saw the paper. I checked outside and saw no one. I read the note, shaved and dressed and went to the wharf. The police were there. I went to the alley, saw you and Beatrice's body, stupidly confessed the scarf was mine and now I find myself sitting in a small room where you're questioning me about a crime of which I am ignorant. I know what you're thinking—that I killed Beatrice to exonerate Jarrod. How could he possibly have killed Beatrice Severn if he was in jail, I would expect you to ask, so maybe he didn't kill Isabelle Henry either? The killer is still on the loose."

Inspector Martin sat back and drank his coffee. Adam had already had two cups.

"You have neglected to tell me about the incident concerning you and Miss Severn at the Courtyard Tavern."

"You didn't ask me about that. Besides, I didn't think it was important." Adam sat quietly and Inspector Martin stared at him. Adam became uncomfortable; he knew that the incident might provide fodder for motivation for murder on his part. "She came into the tavern, accused me of being in cahoots with Jarrod to kill Isabelle and then…she spat in my chowder. But I received another bowl so no harm was really done."

"And didn't that make you angry?"

"Yes, but I wouldn't kill someone over something like that. I assume that your men have been talking to people at the tavern and that officer just informed you of Miss Severn's insult."

"All right, Mr. Cartwright. Since you seem to know what I'm thinking, if you wouldn't find her act reason for murder, would you have gone to such lengths as murder to help your friend?"

Adam rolled his eyes. "No. I didn't do this. I told you, I lost the scarf yesterday—somewhere on campus, I think in my last class. I just lost it and someone found it and used it to frame me. I'm sure Jarrod was framed too. You had me write out the note word for word and it's obviously not my handwriting. I didn't write it—someone else did and they want you to think I killed Miss Severn."

"Now who would do such a thing?" Inspector Martin calmly asked. "All we could discover is that the only enemies you had, the only people who wished you ill, were Misses Henry and Severn. Otherwise, you're well-liked"

"I don't know who would do it," Adam said, throwing up his hands and showing his frustration with the events. Then Adam remembered that Inspector Martin had another piece of paper and that he had compared the two, more than likely for paper quality and handwriting comparison. "Did someone write the police a note to tell them to be at the alley? Is it the same handwriting?"

Inspector Martin looked at Adam and said nothing. Adam took that as a confirmation and realized that the second note had caused doubt in Inspector Martin's mind. Adam also knew the Inspector was probably considering that if Adam was guilty, he must have an accomplice—someone to write the note.

"Are you going to arrest me?"

"No, Mr. Cartwright, at least not at the moment but that doesn't mean that you're not a suspect. You may go now. Don't leave Boston and I would advise you to keep quiet about the events. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Adam said standing up. "Can I see Mr. Barkley now? I won't tell him about Miss Severn but I don't want him to think I've abandoned him."

"I'm sorry. Under the circumstances I don't think it would be wise."

"If I wrote a note, would you see he receives it?"

Inspector Martin was inclined to say no but the young man was so earnest that he approved so Adam was given a pencil and a sheet of paper and wrote a quick note:

"Jarrod, they won't let me visit you but I went to see Professor Donnelly yesterday and he said that he would talk to the law professors about your arrest and the charges. I suggested that one of the professors may be willing to take your case gratis. I still think I should let your family know but I will abide by your wishes. Please get word to me if you have changed your mind.

Adam."

"Thank you," Adam said as he handed the note to Inspector Martin who scanned the contents and then seemed satisfied that Adam hadn't conveyed information in some couched phrase. He also pulled out the earlier note and scanned both sheets of paper for any comparison.

"I told you that I didn't write the note," Adam said.

The inspector nodded and handed Adam's note to Jarrod to the officer standing at the door and directed him to deliver it to the prisoner, Jarrod Barkley. And with a nod to the Inspector, Adam left, picking up his coat and hat.

"Mr. Cartwright." Adam turned to see what the Inspector wanted. "Your gloves."

Adam grinned sheepishly and reached for them but the Inspector turned the tan leather gloves in his hands, looking at the knuckle portions.

"A nice pair of gloves—fine leather."

"Thank you," Adam said and put out his hand for them. The Inspector looked up at Adam and handed them back to him but Adam knew what had just happened. Beatrice had obviously, from the look of her face, put up a struggle and whoever had taken her life had struck her many times leaving her face bruised and battered, even splitting her lip. He was also aware that as Inspector Martin had interrogated him, he had scrutinized Adam's hands to see if they were cut or bruised. Adam put on his hat and hurried out of the station and back to his rooms. He needed his texts for his afternoon classes.

"Well, it's a relief to hear that Professor Langston will be consulting attorney on Jarrod's case," Adam said as he sipped a cup of Dr. Donnelly's coffee.

"Since you are his closest friend, Adam, how is he holding up?" Donnelly sat back in his chair.

"Better than I am, probably."

"Oh?" Professor Donnelly furrowed his brow.

"I shouldn't tell you this but, well, I lost my scarf the other day, somewhere on campus I think."

"My goodness," Professor Donnelly said with mock horror, "what vow are you breaking revealing that information!"

Adam chuckled. "No, it's not that. It's, well, you'll probably read it in the evening news." Adam cleared his throat, "The best friend of the woman Jarrod is accused of killing was murdered last night." Adam suddenly became overwhelmed with emotion. It suddenly hit him that the two vibrant young women were dead—horribly killed and that their families and friends must be distraught. His tears welled and he rubbed his nose and looked down at the cup and saucer in his hands. He leaned forward and placed them on the desk.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Professor Donnelly said, true sympathy in his voice. "What a senseless crime. But surely, that must work to exonerate Jarrod or at least to cast doubt upon his guilt."

Adam swallowed until he could finally control himself enough to answer. "I don't know; he's still in jail. But the worst part is that my scarf was used to…." Adam again couldn't speak. The picture of Beatrice and how she lay in the filthy alley kept coming back to him. He had been so shocked and upset this morning that the weight of the incident hadn't hit him until now. He hoped that Professor Donnelly wouldn't be too sympathetic; he couldn't bear that and was afraid he would collapse in tears.

"To commit the crime," Professor Donnelly finished Adam's sentence and Adam nodded his head. "Do the police know it's your scarf?" Adam nodded. "And they didn't arrest you?"

Adam shook his head, no. "I expect them to. It wouldn't surprise me if they're waiting outside the door to drag me away to the jail." There was a sharp knock on the door and Adam jumped. He wondered if his remark was prophetic.

"Come," Professor Donnelly called out. The door opened and Zedock Taylor stepped in. He looked at Adam sitting across from the professor and pulled off his gloves. Adam looked to see if Zedock's hands were damaged. He had himself come to the conclusion that it had to be someone who frequented the café—it had to be and when he was there again, he would look at everyone's hands. Zedock's hands were unblemished and his gloves were clean as well.

"I didn't mean to interrupt anything," Zedock said, "but you told me to come to your office at five to discuss my assignment and how I could receive a…better grade. Hello, Cartwright. How's Barkley doing?"

Adam stood up. "Much better than you might imagine but the fact that he's innocent weighs heavily—and that someone went through all that trouble to frame him. Well, Professor," Adam said. "I'll leave you now and I want to thank you for all that you've done."

The professor stood and put out his hand and Adam shook it. "Always glad to do whatever I can to help one of my best students."

Adam nodded at Zedock who smiled at him and stepped back so that Adam could pass. And as Adam pulled the door close, he heard Professor Donnelly ask Zedock to sit down.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

Adam had cashed his bank draft at noon so before he returned home, he stopped by the little shop around the corner from his lodging to buy food for his meal.

"And a pound of coffee, please," Adam said. The woman who had arms as large as any man's took a sack down from a high shelf and placed it on the counter.

"Anything else?" She asked, smiling at the young man who usually stopped by with his handsome, dark-haired friend.

Adam looked at his goods—coffee, a loaf of bread, cheese and a tin of milk. He had earlier stopped by the butcher and purchased a few slices of ham and five links of dried sausage.

"No. Mrs. Entwhistle, I think that's it, at least for the time.' She smiled and reached under the counter for a small wooden crate and stacked his purchases inside. Adam looked around the shop and his eye lit on the large class jars of penny candy.

"One more thing." Adam reached into his pocket, pulled out some coins and smiled. "Some butterscotch, please." He handed her a dime.

"Keep your money," she said as she went to the jar and filled a paper cone with butterscotch chunks. "Take these and share with your friend. Where is he this evenin'?"

"He's busy," Adam said, "but I would like to pay." He still held out the dime.

"And I would like you to have them with my best wishes. You're too thin, my boy—too thin. Maybe these will put a bit more skin on those bones of yours." She held out the paper cone that she had folded to close.

Adam slipped the coin back into his pocket and sheepishly accepted the candy. He again felt his emotions rise to the surface over the kindness done him.

"Thank you," Adam said as he paid her for his purchases and smiling one last time, he left the shop to go to his rooms.

Adan pulled his collar up. The wind was blustery and tiny flakes of snow began to fall again. The last snow fall hadn't stayed and he hoped this one would soon disappear as well. Although Boston was beautiful when frosted with snow, Adam hated having cold, damp feet and when the walkways iced over, they were dangerous for walking. He reached his building, opened the outer door and took the stairs to his rooms; he placed the crate on the floor to unlock his door and saw another slip of paper halfway underneath it. Adam picked it up and turned it over in his hands. He unfolded it.

"Meet me at the wharf at 7:30. No police. I have information you need to clear not just your friend but you." Adam noticed that "friend" was misspelled with the transposition of the i and the e.

After putting his crate of groceries on the table and lighting the lamp, Adam looked at the note again; it had the same block lettering. He made up his mind as was his father's advice, to ask for help. It echoed in his ears even after all that time. "Okay, Pa. I'll ask for help." He would take the note to Inspector Martin and Adam put out the lamp and locking the door behind him, the note safely in his inside coat pocket, Adam headed back out.

Since it was about dinner time in most households in Boston and since he and Jarrod lived on a backstreet, there weren't many other people out. As he pulled his collar up, he glanced around. He thought he heard vague footsteps behind him. Adam turned to look and about twenty yards behind him was a man walking in the same direction, his head down and covered by a bowler and his hands shoved into the pockets of a dark overcoat. Adam began to feel a creeping fear. Two women had been killed, two he knew and who was to say that a man, he himself in particular, wasn't to be the next victim?

"Get ahold of yourself, boy," Adam said to himself. "Don't let your imagination run away with you." But Adam had to be sure whether or not he was being followed so he quickly turned down a narrow side street and then stepped into a recessed doorway, pressing himself against it so that someone passing by couldn't see him unless they chose to turn around and look behind them. Even then they might not see due to the dim light, that a man was pressed against the door. Perhaps, he thought, whoever wrote the note was watching to see if he was heading to the police; the note had said no police. Adam decided he would take the backstreets to the police station which was not in the best district of Boston anyway.

Adam breathed shallowly as he waited and then he heard footsteps approaching. He pressed himself as close to the door as he could. The footsteps picked up pace and then he saw the man in the overcoat run past him. The sound of footsteps disappeared and Adam took off the other way out of the street and continued at a faster pace to the police station. As he neared an alley, Adam saw a large, bulky man wearing a short wool jacket and a watch cap walking toward him and Adam nodded as was his habit when he passed a stranger. The man nodded sharply in reply and they passed each other. Adam heard and saw no one else. He smiled to himself; he must have given his pursuer the slip.

Adam's eyes widened in surprise as he felt an arm around his neck from behind. It tightened about him and he felt his eyes lose focus as his breath was shut off. He pulled at the huge arm around his neck but couldn't get any hold on it and he thought, "I'm going to pass out—and then I'll be helpless." And that was his last thought before blackness overcame him.

His shoulders hurt. Adam moved and realized that he was on his stomach and that his arms were pinioned behind him and that was the cause of his pain. He also had a headache; his temples ached. He opened his eyes and saw that he was in a lighted room filled with the smell of fish. Adam knew that he was at the wharf.

"You weren't coming to the wharf, were you, Adam?"

Adam tried to turn his head but couldn't see that far behind him. A hand reached underneath him and grabbed his coat front and jerked him up. He looked into a large grinning face of the man wearing the watch cap, the man on the street. Then Adam heard the voice again and he recognized it: Zedock Taylor.

"Adam, Adam, Adam. Tsk tsk, tsk," Zedock said grinning. Adam had been pulled into a sitting position and Zedock sat on a barrel grinning at him. I guess you aren't as smart as you thought." And Zedock laughed and Adam knew that he had been a fool.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10 **

Adam tried to get into a comfortable sitting position and rolled his shoulders to ease the ache of their being pulled back and his overcoat seemed to be holding him prisoner as well since it was twisted.

Adam looked at Zedock who grinned at him. Adam had always known that Zedock disliked him and Jarrod but this was more than mere aversion. "You killed Isabelle and Beatrice, didn't you, Zedock?"

"Me? No, Adam—of course I didn't—you killed Beatrice and Jarrod killed Isabelle. Where have you been that you haven't heard that? The news is out there and even the police believe it." Zedock laughed again and the big whaler stood and smiled as well. "But actually, Adam, I have never killed anyone. If one has as much money as I do, one can always pay someone else to do the dirty work for them. I have paid this fine whaler here, to help both Isabelle and Beatrice out of this world of misery and grief and to send them on to a better place and to all others, I am innocent and you, Adam, are guilty."

"You took Jarrod's letter out of his coat pocket didn't you?"

"Of course, I did," Zedock said with disdain. "When Isabelle challenged you with the crime for a crime, well, I came up with the idea of creating the 'perfect' crime and I do believe I have done so. It was all planned out logically and coolly. At first wanted to get you, Adam, to take your scarf and plant it on Isabelle, but when I walked by Jarrod's coat hanging there, a corner of a letter was sticking out of the pocket. I just nabbed it, went to the wharf and hired Murphy here. He would do anything for money—anything. Besides, seeing that you and Jarrod are such good friends, I knew it would make you unhappy if Jarrod was an accused murderer and I'll do just about anything to make you unhappy."

Zedock jumped off the barrel and walked toward Adam. "Are you unhappy, Adam?"

Adam looked at Murphy who stood a few feet away but who watched Adam closely. Murdock, he assumed, was just waiting for orders—or his money.

"Yes, I'm unhappy. Why did you frame me with Beatrice's death?"

"Because I could," Zedock said and laughed. "You left your scarf in Professor Donnelly's office and I walked out with it. But the best is yet to come-you are going to be so aggrieved at your sin of murder that was committed in a pathetic attempt to exonerate your friend, Jarrod, that you are going to shoot yourself—right there," Zedock formed his right hand and forefinger into the shape of a gun and jabbed Adam in his left temple. "Bang!"

Adam heard a sound outside the door and Zedock motioned to Murphy to hush. There was one knock, a pause of a few seconds and then two in quick succession.

"Open the door," Zedock said to Murphy.

Adam's hopes rose when he saw Professor Donnelly walk in and then, his hopes fell when the professor spoke.

"So this is your idea of the perfect crime?" He shook his head at Zedock. "Had you told me what you had planned, I would have discouraged you, told you it was doomed to fail. Murder will out. But the biggest mistake you made was to make this crime personal."

"No—it is the perfect crime—I will have succeeded in the death of four innocent people. I planned it out rationally and logically and it is fool-proof. I have already gotten away with the murder of two people. You accepted my proposal that if I could do something that exemplified logic, well, I could pass the class. I have done so and also managed to rid myself of two people I heartily dislike—Jarrod Barkley and Adam Cartwright. Jarrod will be hanged and Adam will shoot himself, splattering his brains all over the wall. It is perfect." Zedock grinned.

"What about him?" Professor Donnelly asked. He motioned toward Murphy. "How does he play into this? He's nothing more than a brute."

"Now look here," Murphy said, "Don't you be lookin' down your nose at me. A man's got to make a livin'." Murphy turned to Zedock. "I want my money now. My ship leaves in a half hour. I done your job and done it well. Even this gent here," he motioned with his head toward Adam, "didn't give me as much of a fight as that big girl did and I should get extra money just for cutting my knuckle on her teeth. Now my money and I'll be gone." The whaler put out his hand and Zedock pulled some bills out of his pocket and handed then to Murphy who quickly counted them and then tucked them into his inside jacket pocket. "Well, gents, good night to all."

Murphy tipped his hat to Professor Donnelly and almost had the door latch in his hand when a bullet slammed through the back of his head and Murphy dropped like an anchor. Donnelly then turned the gun he had pulled on Zedock.

"You are a damnable idiot, Zedock. You claim to be logical and yet you were going to allow the assassin to leave."

Zedock began to sweat; he hadn't expected Professor Donnelly to pull a gun. He feared that he would be shot. Perhaps Professor Donnelly needed to rid himself of all witnesses which included him and Adam since he would be accused of being complicit in Zedock's crime.

Adam sat and watched. He thought he had the whole crime figured out, that Zedock had murdered the two women and he also knew that he and Jarrod had been framed but now he knew why; Zedock wanted to pass a class. It was so mundane, so innocuous a reason that no one would ever suspect the motivation. Zedock had almost committed the prefect crime but made the mistake of including others.

"When you made the proposition about the perfect crime, logically wrought and the perpetrator not even being suspected," Donnelly said, "I didn't take you seriously. I didn't think that you would kill anyone, that your crime would be murder. But then you must have already killed Miss Henry the night you came to see me. Nevertheless, I am going to use this situation to my advantage. Sit down on the floor, Mr. Taylor, and put your hands behind you."

Zedock sat, shaking with fear, and Donnelly took a long knitted scarf off from around his neck and tied Zedock's hands firmly.

"Now," Donnelly said as he looked down on Zedock, "you have proved yourself incapable of carrying out the perfect crime—the perfect murder-because you failed to follow the first rule of assassination—kill the assassin."

"Murphy wouldn't have said anything—he was leaving for sea for a few months to go whaling. No one would find him, think of matching his handwriting to any notes the police may have. There wasn't any need to kill him—he couldn't be connected."

Adam spoke up. "And there was no need to kill Isabelle and Beatrice, Zedock. Don't you understand that?"

"Perhaps I should have had Murphy kill you and Jarrod—a harpoon through your chests," Zedock sneered at him.

"Enough," the professor said. "We'll wait here for few minutes until Husrev arrives."

"Husrev?" Adam looked at Professor Donnelly and then Zedock who appeared as confused as he.

The professor sighed. "I am so sorry, Adam. I do like you—admire you actually-but I find that I must use you for—bartering purposes. I had planned on using Zedock but since you're here as well and I don't want to kill you, I'll use both of you. Believe me, Adam, it does grieve me to have to do this. You see, I have another…vice other than the coffee I so enjoy. The tears of the poppy, so to speak."

"Opium," Adam said.

"Yes. Quite a few years ago I took a trip through Turkey and discovered its pleasures. Husrev, the Turkish captain who brings me the coffee also smuggles my opium in the sacks of coffee beans but this time, he didn't want money. It seems that he serves a wealthy man, a prince of the blood in the Ottoman Empire who has a fancy for beautiful young men. This prince has decided that he wants an American, I suppose for variety. Husrev said that the prince has young men from many other countries to indulge his perverse passions but no Americans, and if I don't deliver, I will not receive any more opium—or coffee." Professor Donnelly gave a small laugh. 'He will be good to you, Adam You are a beautiful young man and I don't hesitate to say that you will probably soon be his favorite. I can see you wearing silk pajamas and an open vest with your dark hair and well-muscled body oiled. I almost find myself desiring you as well."

"So you're going to be guilty of slave trade as well as murder," Adam said showing his disgust.

"Yes, I suppose so. And you, Zedock, having money will not serve you in this case as the prince has greater riches than your family and if you do not behave, well, he may make you a eunuch to guard his male harem."

"Please," Zedock said with desperation. "Let me go. I'll give you money. You can buy opium elsewhere and I swear I won't tell anyone. I swear it."

"Don't grovel, Mr. Taylor—most unseemly. See how Mr. Cartwright has stoically accepted his fate? That is the only logical thing to do. Learn from him."

Donnelly turned at the sound of footsteps. "Husrev is here." He turned back to the two young men but when the door opened, Adam felt a wave of relief flow over him. Inspector Martin and five constables rushed in and held guns on Professor Donnelly.

"Please put down the gun," Inspector Martin said. "It will make things so much easier." One constable was crouched on the floor beside Murphy's body checking his vitals but it was just procedure as it was obvious by the wound that he was dead.

Professor Donnelly sighed heavily. "Yes, I suppose I should. I have only one option after all." Professor Donnelly appeared to be turning the gun in his hand to give it over butt-end first when he shifted it. He quickly placed the barrel in his mouth and fired. Adam flinched at the sound and at the blood that sprayed across him and Zedock including bits of skull and tissue. And the professor fell backwards on top of Zedock who screamed and flailed with his feet.

"Oh, hell," Inspector Martin said. He grabbed Professor Donnelly and pulled him off of Zedock and the dead man stared blankly at the ceiling above after he was laid on the cold floor. The Inspector looked at Adam. "Perhaps you can fill me in on what's happened. Untie them," he said to one of the constables.

"He was responsible for Isabelle and Beatrice," Adam said, motioning toward Zedock as the constable helped him up and began to untie him. "That man, the big one, he's the assassin."

Inspector Martin told the constable to take Zedock to the station and then turned to Adam.

"Thank you, Inspector. I am happy to see you—for once." He grinned widely and the Inspector handed him his handkerchief so that Adam could wipe the blood off his face.

"We would have been here sooner but it seems you gave our man the slip, Mr. Cartwright. Once he spied you again, you were being carried like a sack of grain—he found your hat-and he followed you here. He then needed to notify us of your whereabouts and request more officers." He looked at the two bodies on the floor. "Such a shame—such a loss of life. Two women and then these two. Now if you will come down to the station with me?"

"A pleasure." Adam was only too happy to go down to the police station and he attempted to walk but his legs were shaky. "I think I need to rest a minute," he said as he leaned against the outside wall. For once, he was glad it was cold; the crisp air seemed to revive him.

"Take your time, Mr. Cartwright. We have all night."

**Epilogue**

The next morning Jarrod's lawyer, assisted by Professor Langston on how to present the request, asked for a dismissal of the charges against him and the judge agreed. Jarrod, smiling broadly, thanked his lawyer and Professor Langston, heartily shaking hands with them both.

"And don't worry about being behind in assignments, Mr. Barkley," Professor Langston had said. "I am sure that if you can present your case, even prepare a motion to forgive your absence that it will go well for you."

And after the hearing, Adam was waiting in the gallery and walked up to Jarrod. The two friends shook hands and then Jarrod pulled Adam to him and slapped him on the back in what passed among men as affection and that night, Jarrod was home in the small rooms he shared with Adam as if he had never left.

"I get back my draft tomorrow from the evidence clerk and I'll cash it then," Jarrod said as he sat on the sofa, a textbook open on his lap, his long legs crossed and his feet on the small table before him. The small furnace was roaring and Adam had also started the stove in the kitchen area so the room was warm. The lamps cast a golden glow about the area and outside, snow gently fell.

"We should be sitting pretty thus month," Adam, said. "My father sent an extra ten dollars." Adam was at the desk reading. He had read the same lengthy passage over and over but each time he was at the end, he realized that he had no memory of the words that had passed before his eyes. He slammed the book shut and the sound startled Jarrod.

"Now what was that about?" Jarrod asked. Things had been awkward between him and Adam and Jarrod suspected why; there were so many things the two friends needed to say to one another, how they cherished their friendship, but as of yet, neither man had the courage to say the words—it might make either one of them vulnerable and things might even be more awkward afterwards. Words stayed around. They had spoken of Isabelle and Beatrice and how sad they were at the women's passing—how the two women hadn't done anything except be argumentative. They had also discussed how Zedock Taylor's family's great fortune might very well get him off with a light sentence, but neither had spoken of their feelings about the situation in which they had found themselves—one of them in jail and needing help and the other desperate to help.

"I can't concentrate." Adam held his head in his heads. Then he blew out his cheeks and turned to Jarrod who closed his book. "Jarrod," Adam began," I've never had a good friend, I mean a friend who actually thought the same way I do about things, who held the same values that I do until I happened to meet you. I value our friendship and I really would have done just about anything to help you. I'm sorry that I couldn't do more."

"Thank you, Adam, for saying that but I know you did all that you could. I also know that I should be closest to my brother, Nick. He's only two years younger than I and we've been raised together by the same parents, lectured on the same things, but he and I—we're different. We value different traits in people, different things and sometimes when I'm talking, he stares at me as if I'm from another world. But you, Adam, I feel closer to you than any blood tie could make us."

The two young men looked at one another. Adam broke the silence. "The business with Professor Donnelly and such, we've never talked about it."

Jarrod sat thinking. "I still can't believe that he…I suppose that if a man has a vice, one like opium addiction, well, he'll do anything to keep the supply coming. The only thing I have trouble with is his thinking that anyone would find you worthy of exchange for drugs." He looked at Adam and they both grinned and then laughed.

And again Adam felt tears so close to the surface that he had to look away. Then he turned to Jarrod.

"Let's go to the Tremont House Hotel for dinner. We're flush with money. Why we can even take a hansom cab."

"Ah," Jarrod said standing up and grabbing his overcoat. "Why not? We can treat ourselves to a nice dish of partridge."

"Yes—chartreuse de perdreaux. And then a nice white wine to accompany it." Adam picked up his overcoat and his hat, pulling the gloves out of his pocket to slip them on. But as he looked at the gloves in his hands, he was back in the interrogation room and Inspector Martin was turning the gloves over, examining them. Adam looked at Jarrod. "I wonder what we did to be so hated."

"Probably nothing. I think Zedock really hated himself—not us. It was just easier that way. Besides, what does it matter now? Many people—have genuine affection for you. Didn't Amy give you a free dinner and you said Mrs. Entwhistle gave you the butterscotch chunks I enjoyed while waiting to be released." Jarrod slapped Adam on the back. "Now let's go to dinner."

Adam pulled on his gloves. He suddenly felt ease. Yes, Jarrod was correct; he did have many people who liked him and cared for him, maybe even loved him—people who had shown him a kindness wanting nothing in return; the universe was benevolent. And the two friends went out together into the night.

~ Finis ~


End file.
